When he finally spoke, it was a whisper, as if the words might break something in the air. “So what now, Sheriff?” The nickname was half-tease, half-dare.
I shrugged. “I was hoping you’d have the plan, McKenzie. You’re the one with the art school education.”
He smiled, crooked. “Didn’t cover this scenario. Closest we got was a semester on performance art, and that was mostly getting naked and pretending to set things on fire.”
“I’d pay to see that,” I said.
He gave a little snort, but the warmth in it made my face heat up. I looked away, stared at my hands, which had started to twitch again now that there was no crisis to solve.
“What about the shop?” I asked. “You gonna start over?”
He shrugged, but I could see the flicker of pain behind his eyes. “Maybe. I keep thinking I’ll fix it, put the walls back up and get the neon going again. But every time I walk past, it just smells like burnt plastic and bad memories.” He let the pen roll across the coffee table. “Might be time to do something else.”
“You’re not quitting,” I said, more desperate than I meant.
He looked at me, then shook his head. “No. Not quitting. Just…maybe I’ll do the thing I always wanted. Paint, draw, whatever. Set up a little studio and see what happens.”
I grunted. “You could use my spare room.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You offering?”
I said it without thinking: “Wouldn’t mind the company.”
He grinned, slow and wide. “You trying to get me to move in, Sheriff?”
The words hung in the air. My chest squeezed up like a fist, and I was suddenly aware of how real this was, how close he was to just—being mine. I opened my mouth, tried to make a joke, but what came out instead was, “If you want to.”
He stared at me, and something in his face cracked, just for a second. The smartass look faded, and all that was left was hope and a little terror.
“I do,” he said. “More than anything.”
I nodded, unsure if I’d heard him right. Then, before I could overthink it, I got up, crossed the two feet between us, and straddled his lap. My ribs screamed in protest, but I didn’t care.He was solid under me, muscle and heat, and I wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there forever.
His hands went to my hips instantly, strong and sure, holding me steady. I framed his face with my palms, roughing up the hair at his temples, feeling the stubble rasp against my thumbs.
I said, “I’m going to move you in here and I’m going to live with you and your little art studio and one day, I’m going to marry you. I’m never letting you leave me again.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Jesus, Floyd, you don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“Nope,” I said, and kissed him.
His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue pushing in to claim mine, teeth clashing hard enough to bruise. He grabbed my ass, pulling me down tight against his lap, and I could feel the bulge of him through the thin cotton of his jeans. I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate, and he made a sound in his throat like a growl.
He broke the kiss long enough to say, “You keep that up, I’m going to fuck you right here.”
I nipped at his jaw, feeling reckless. “That’s the idea.”
He laughed, but it died in a gasp when I ground down again, hard. His fingers dug into the flesh of my hips, tattooed knuckles going white. I cupped his face, kissed him again, slower this time, letting the heat build.
I could feel the shape of his cock through the denim, thick and hot, and I wanted it inside me so bad my whole body ached. But mostly, I just wanted to feel him—his heartbeat, his breath, the way he held me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
He pulled back, forehead resting against mine, his eyes gone dark and glassy. “You’re really not letting me go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” I said.
He kissed me again, all teeth and tongue and desperate wanting, and I let myself get lost in it. The rest of the world could burn. We had everything we needed, right here.
It only took a second for the kiss to go from “I missed you” to “I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.” I don’t know who started it—maybe both of us—but suddenly we were clawing at each other, mouths slamming together, hands yanking at shirt hems and belt buckles, desperate for skin.
